


nenya vilya narya

by Tethys_resort



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Dreams and Nightmares, Families of Choice, Family Drama, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Gwaith-i-Mírdain, Holidays, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jewelry, Loneliness, Memories, Mental Instability, Midwinter, Moving On, Oaths & Vows, Psychological Torture, References to Sex, Rings, Secrets, War, flaws, inventions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:29:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27744511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tethys_resort/pseuds/Tethys_resort
Summary: In the end, a story about a mad smith and a dream.Warnings: the rating on this one is both for themes and violence.  Please check the tags!
Relationships: Annatar & Celebrimbor | Telperinquar, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Elrond Peredhel, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Narvi
Comments: 11
Kudos: 31





	1. Dreams are mirrors, but twisted ones.

**Author's Note:**

> Celebrimbor is not in a healthy place, be warned.

Celebrimbor heard their voices in his dreams first. 

Sweet and quiet with a will of steel. Brash and fierce and in constant motion. Quiet and deep, with the echo of laughter. Neither male nor female but compelling him onward so he ran toward them through the night. He awoke breathless the next morning and stared out his window into the little quiet courtyard garden he had added as the house was built. 

He dreamed the same dream the next night. And the next. 

Then one night, the voices crept up to him and hugged him, cradling him in love and affection. 

One said, _“Ada, Ada. Come play with us?”_

Another laughed, and said, _“Ada, we love you.”_

They curled around him, filling him with a satisfied and peaceful love he hadn’t felt since he had disowned his father and walked away, leaving him behind in a pool of apoplectic silence. 

The one named Annatar had tried for such affection. And Celebrimbor had craved it badly and tried to form a relationship with the Maia, visualizing romance and hoping for at least the easy partnership he had shared with Narvi. Instead he had only managed to build a relationship of master and prized pupil. Then, Annatar had patted him (like an obedient dog his conscience whispered) and continued onward with whatever mission the Valar had given him. A gift giver indeed, but a strangely harsh one. 

Still, the craft of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain had expanded and its power increased until Celebrimbor could even dream of comparing himself to his Grandfather. 

But growing up in Valinor he had learned that the Valar and Maiar were harsh and fierce. 

Their view of the world was rooted in their place in the vast Song, not the simple souls of Elves. In the War, they had made dreadful choices and used power far beyond even what his Grandfather had envisioned. And then presented his two little cousins with an awful choice that sundered them until the Final Music. 

He shuddered as he remembered the empty pain in Elrond’s eyes when he returned from that final journey to Numenor. He said, “Elros is gone,” and then stiffly walked into the Palace of Lindon with Erestor on his heels. Celebrimbor had stayed in Lindon instead of going back out to the frontier watch that was his assignment then, sleeping on Elrond’s couch, terrified his little cousin would Fade for grief. But Elrond was stronger than he had ever been and simply continued, surrounded by the House he and Elros had built. 

No, Annatar had certainly been a gift giver but in the true sense of the Valar rather than Elves. 

That night, one of the great whistling katabatic winds from the slopes of the Mountain howled. He had taken the precaution of shutting the shutters, so he was left to lie in the dark and listen to the roof joists creak slightly. Restlessly he wondered if he should relight the lamps and go back to his workroom. 

But he had left the tempering chest full, let the forge cool, and opened up the kiln so he could replace the bricks that had finally started to break into clinker. 

So instead he lay and visualized how life could have been. In Valinor, in the Light of the Trees. 

No matter how much joy and clear warmth the Sun and Moon brought to Arda, he would always treasure the memories of the Trees. They had spiraled up into the skies, bright against the stars. No fire, no lamp, no gemstone would ever compare to the sheer living glory of the Trees. 

The Silmarils had come close, but had been flawed by the flaws of their brilliant creator. He wondered how his grandfather had been before their making. Different, by the muttering of his father. Less obsessed, more loving, by the whispers of his uncles. 

In idle loneliness he slid out of his tunic and leggings and lay down on his bed to curl up naked around a pillow. 

He is the last one left of the family who had watched the Oathtaking. And he had not sworn, just watched in terror and awe. Elrond and Elros were Feanorians, but isolated by time and design from the curse of the Oath. 

And in many ways he was alone. Galadriel, glorious and full of fire, had never even given him a second glance. Narvi, lovely Narvi, with her cold calculations and wry intelligence had been the sister of his heart, not a mate. And she was now gone.

That night he dreamed. 

The graceful buildings of Ost-in-Edhil were smoldering and crumpled, bodies sprawled in the streets. He walked through the mess toward the jeweler’s hall, following a set of bloody footprints running the same way. They skirted the piles of rubble, skidding a little on their own blood. A block or so from the hall they turned off and went up an alley. He didn’t follow but continued onward, around the corner and up the wide stone steps. There were orcs and Men lying on the stairs interspersed with smiths: elves and dwarves he recognized, now lying still in puddles of gore.

At the top, in the doorway was Narvi, her head crushed by a blow that had sent blood and brains across the sill.

He awoke with a gasp and went to find some water. The wind had died down. Celebrimbor stood in his courtyard garden with his glass, and listened to the quiet of the night. The center of town was never totally silent, and he could hear someone in the House next door singing a lullaby to one or all of the elflings there. (There were three. And they moved at such speed, shrieking in high pitched glee, that Celebrimbor occasionally thought they had duplicated themselves for a total of eight or nine.)

He listened for a while and then went back in and slipped into a dreamless sleep until dawn. 

A commission came in the next day, from one of the dwarf lords. She wanted a lift for one of the deep mines of the Blue Mountains. They would normally build the thing themselves, after all such a device was routine in deep mines. But the War had left the mountains unstable, fissured with cracks from the repeated massive concussive blasts. The Gwaith-i-Mirdain would be capable of building a lift that would withstand the repeated movements and odd pressures and allow mining of the sapphires the southwestern edge still contained. 

As a commissioning gift (on top of the fees such a project would command) she presented him with a small but absolutely perfect sapphire. The color was so deep it was almost black, but a clear and perfect blue without any secondary shades. 

He set it in his private workroom, carelessly on a shelf with the rest. 

No one would dare disturb it there, no one crafted in there with him. Not since Annatar had politely praised his workings and bid him farewell. And more truthfully, not since his little sister Narvi had died.

He thought she would have laughed to hear herself described as his little sister. 

It took several days to organize the team working on the project. He was not on it, but a mixed group of very fine metal workers, builders and mathematicians had been necessary to the project. He slept peacefully each night, the nightmare fading away into fragments. 

One of many nightmares he saw since Narvi had died.

Celebrimbor had moved in and cared for his little sister until her death. 

Narvi had died peacefully in her quarters near the Door. In her last years arthritis stole the motion of her fingers and cataracts her sight. At least Elrond’s medicines had made the arthritis hurt less. She had laughed and loved her life even as it slipped away in the way that Mortal’s do. 

He envied her the joy.

The next free day he repaired the broken bricks in the kiln, carefully chipping away at the mortar until the cracked bricks were exposed. Then prising them out in chunks that he carefully reassembled on his desk, looking for missing bits that if left in the kiln might explode in the heat. Gently cleaning the gap and smoothing the sharp edges before adding fresh mortar and sliding the new kiln bricks in was the fastest and easiest part. 

If only the gaps in his life were so easily repaired. 

That night he dreamed again. This time of a forest in a thousand shades of green. The path was muddy in the heavy rain and he stepped carefully as he followed it. 

He almost missed the body of the elf hidden in the leaves, except for the sudden stench of blood and fresh exposed guts. The male was ripped almost in half, his blood coated a wide arc of the trees he lay beside. The increasing rain did not drown out the smell of burning greenery, bitter in the back of his throat. Celebrimbor swallowed, this was the smell of Beleriand: blood and sharp smoke that lingered. 

There were more bodies. Celebrimbor recognized the Sindar silver hair of one body, the pale skin and light brown hair of one of the Avari tribes on another. 

He walked onward and farther into the remains of battle. 

And then farther into actual battle. 

When he blinked he was standing in front of a castle built into wide cliffs. The lower portions swarmed with orcs and giant black spiders. Smoke drifted from the upper battlements. 

Galadriel stood there next to him in scale armor, tarnished and dented. There was a scratch along her neck bleeding onto the bright enamelwork of her breastplate and a wisp of her hair had escaped from its bun. Her helmet was under one arm as she stood and stared up at the fortress. There was a shrieking cry from above and she sighed and her eyes slid over and met his. “Nephew… I guess it is no surprise that I would see you at the end of the tale, since you began it.” The smile was exhausted but triumphant. “I wonder if we will meet again in the Halls?”

She dropped her helmet. And then carefully pulled off the armored gloves before stripping off the soft leather under-gloves and dropping them in a heap by her feet amid the stones. 

“We have just enough power, the two of us.” This time the smile was light, and more carefree than it had been even in the Light of the Trees so long ago now. He stood frozen in place, begging his legs to follow as she dropped her sword next to her gloves and stepped away, almost dancing. Her eyes glowed with her power and it swirled around her like the flames he had watched devour his Grandfather Feanor. 

“Khamul! I have waited for this day for over 500 years.” The howl echoed back from the suddenly silent stone and crowded battlefield gone frozen. A pebble bounced away somewhere under his foot, rattling loud and the power rushed higher, Galadriel burning like a star. She raised her hands to the sky and screamed, “Khamul! Come out, I have come to help you join your master!”

The cry resounded like an earthquake and the earth itself roared back. Celebrimbor lost his footing, and as he fell, fell out of the dream. 

He lay in bed, clutching the blankets and listening to his heart pound in the silence. The hanging lamp over the door rocked in a gentle ellipse. It was completely silent outside too, and then one by one the night crickets began to sing again in tentative little chirps. 

As the chorus built back to its usual late summer roar he drifted back off into sleep. Minor earthquakes are common in Eregion, so close to the foot of the mountains. 

Late summer turned toward true fall, and with the rising chill he spent some time in Council. The harvest was in swing and with the changing of the season there were political matters to care for. He hated politics and had worked (and succeeded) at keeping the Court of Eregion small and purely functional. 

It had been fun, he had taken one of the Edain systems and adapted it so most of Eregion ran on a series of committees. It meant he had more time for Gwaith-i-Mirdain business but also more arguments with elected committee heads.

And it usually freed him up to travel back to Lindon for Midwinter. 

As Midwinter approached, Ost-in-Edhil was beautiful in the first snow of the season. But this year a late fall storm had washed out one of the major bridges. It would need to be rebuilt in the spring when the water levels were safer. Without a safe crossing, there would be no holiday with Elrond and his House this year, no visiting of the Lindon guilds, and no winter browsing of the trade goods that came on the favorable winter winds.

The dwarf lords and smiths went under the Mountain for the holidays. And Celebrimbor’s smiths went to visit their families, or arranged the big family parties traditional for the season. 

Midwinter eve he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He was certain if he had given any indication he was lonely he would have been buried in invitations to spend the feast with various members of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. 

He hated the thought of pity. The orphan, no mate (of either gender), no children. No one running to greet him. Invited because he is alone. 

No, he would keep himself company. 

Celebrimbor opened his nightstand drawer and poked through the contents before making his selections. He was in the mood to be taken, the experiment with glass seemed like a good option. 

Late in the night he pulled the toy away and curled up around his pillow to sleep, pretending the heavy quilts were an arm draped over him.

There was no mate in his future. No children. No lovers. So he might as well take his satisfaction where he can. 


	2. If you could be granted any wish, would your choice be wise?

He woke up the next morning sore and miserable. 

After lying there a while he decided to try and make the best of the holiday. He went down to the market and purchased enough hot food from the stalls to sit in the snow and eat a late lunch. The great park was full of families out playing, and he skipped it to walk onward and down to the river and solitude. There on a boulder above the ice and water he sat down and started to fish through his basket.

“Well met, Lord Khel.” The rough voice behind him almost startled him into the water. 

The dwarf standing on the shore smiled slightly. “Or I would say happy Midwinter but you seem anything but happy at the moment.”

“Lord Dini, Midwinter greetings.” Celebrimbor smiled in what he hoped was a friendly and inviting fashion. “Would you like to share my basket lunch?” He liked the Master of the Glassblower’s Guild, with his rough voice and scarred hands, leftovers from an accident over a hundred years ago. 

Lord Dini slid gracefully down the bank and Celebrimbor put out a hand to help pull him up the rock, a perch a little too tall for the old dwarf. 

Once up, Lord Dini sat down next to him in silence and together they stared across the river at the bare branches, black rocks and white snow. Celebrimbor stared down at his company, the dwarf lord seemed content and unhurried, bundled heavily against the cold. There was a tiny splash from the river, and Lord Dini said, “Well lad, let’s have some of that basket.”

Celebrimbor chuckled and pulled the basket around between them. 

Lord Dini fished through with a laugh. “Pies and cookies, a jar of hot rum, winter apples and cheese. Quite a feast.” He pulled out the jar of hot spiced rum and unscrewed the top to take a neat sip before passing it back to Celebrimbor.

Celebrimbor saluted him and took a gulp. “Happy Midwinter, and to a productive sort of year.” He capped the jar and set it next to them and started pulling out food.

The pies were good and still hot. Celebrimbor had purchased a selection large enough to squirrel away in his little kitchen for a few days. He chose one at random and ate, staring across the water. The sun was brighter on the snow than he had expected and the river was flat and calm here so the dark trees reflected back from the water. The sounds of the town were distant. 

He finished the pie and another in complete silence, and then he and Lord Dini ate most of the cookies together.

And then finished the rum, passing the jar between them wordlessly.

The shadows were growing in the short winter day when Lord Dini said, “They never go away you know.”

Startled, Celebrimbor turned to stare at him. Lord Dini smiled quietly but his voice was a little more hoarse than usual. “My One. Your father and all of your uncles. All the family we have made or will make one day.”

He stood and brushed himself off, staring away across the water. “Knowing you, you haven’t thought that Lord Elrond is probably sitting right now and wishing you could fill the empty spot at his table. He’s a good fellow and a proper sort of cousin to have.” He turned and patted Celebrimbor’s shoulder before sliding down the boulder. 

He walked off a few steps and then turned again. “Stay alone at Midwinter if you wish. Mahal knows I would rather feast in silence with the memory of my One than in the chaos of the Mountain this time of year. But feast with the good memories, not the bad and then go make something pretty.” The dwarf lord laughed at himself and set off back up into town.

Celebrimbor watched him go and then turned back to watch the river. The sun set in a brilliant display of colors.

Finally, as the stars came out and a colder breeze traveled up the river he started to laugh. 

As he headed toward home he whispered, “Thank you Lord Dini.”

He cooked himself a meal of bread and cheese, toasted on his hearth, and went to bed early.

And dreamed. 

“One, two, three…” The counting was quiet and Celebrimbor turned to see Uncle Maedhros standing, staring across an unfamiliar market square. Apparently three was not the correct number, because his uncle scowled and yelled, “Finno! Finno! Where are you?” Heads turned all over the square at the yelling but Uncle Fingon popped out from a nearby stall.

“Nelyo! I was just talking to Mel over here.” He flapped a hand back in the direction of the stall, and a young Vanya female (presumably Mel) giggled and waved back. “Her family makes housewares and children’s toys that are wood, Sung into shape as they grow. Can you imagine?”

Uncle Maedhros didn’t seem mollified at the explanation. “I said one hour before the Light changed!” He scowled broadly across the group of cousins, Uncle Turgon scowled back. “We still have to change clothing and if we are late to Kano’s concert he will never forgive us!”

“Umm, Cousin? The concert park is two blocks down from the house, I think we’re okay for time.” The speaker was very tall, broad, and blond with a happy, carefree smile.. 

Squinting, Celebrimbor realized he was looking at Lord Glorfindel. A younger, happier version than the one whose fresh grave he had walked past on a peak above the remains of Gondolin. 

Which would make this the infamous cousin trip to Valmar. He glanced about the square with fresh eyes. Yes, there were a lot of Vanya. 

Uncle Maedhros sighed. “Yes, but we need to make a few more stops on our way back to the House of a Thousand Leaves.” He rolled his eyes. “We left your older sister, Irrise, and Tyelkormo somewhere along the route. And it will take all of us to pry Carnistir out of the trade hall.” 

Glorfindel thought for a moment. “Probably in Suli’s tree.”

“Suli’s tree?” 

Glorfindel smiled brightly. “Suli is a Maia of Yavanna. Her tree is great, she has filled the branches with moving plants. Law brings more back for her sometimes when we go on trips.”

Uncle Fingon’s eyes widened. “Not like that elf-eating monster she has growing by the pond?” 

“Moryo was pretty involved in his discussion when I left,” Uncle Turgon shrugged. “It might take brute force to get him away.” 

“I think that only some of Suli’s plants eat people, most are too small.”

“I mean, I can understand: bullion prices are much more interesting than music.”

“I am visualizing Iri feeding Tyelko to the plants for a laugh.” Uncle Fingon was laughing. 

Uncle Turgon shook his head, “Huan will hopefully provide the common sense for the group.”

“Can Huan climb trees?”

Uncle Maedhros sighed, rolling his eyes. He muttered, “Why did I agree to organize this?” 

He raised his voice. “Right then, if we are LATE Kano will never forgive us. He will SING about us.” That brought the chatter to a halt. “So, Turko. You and Finno go to the trader’s hall and bring back Carnistir. By force if necessary, point out the diplomatic possibilities of crowded concerts. Laure and I will go help Huan retrieve Tyelko, Iri and Lawadis from elf-eating tree Maia.”

Celebrimbor laughed as the cousins scattered, Uncle Maedhros dragging Glorfindel down the street as Glorfindel protested, “While Suli’s plants are sometimes a little jumpy, all you need to do was Sing to them. And Suli herself says she has never eaten an elf.”

He awoke still laughing and lay in the dark with a wide smile on his face. 

They had all been so happy then, in the Light of the Trees. Everything had been full of promise. He remembered the joy on Uncle Fingon’s face when he related the story on a winter’s night. 

Even the memory of the story was enough to brighten his day, and he swept about his private workshop finishing out the various minor projects. The Gwaith-i-Mirdain wouldn’t start anything new for several weeks, making this time entirely his own. 

The last of the projects was a pendant. A commission for a Mannish Lord to the farthest East. A trader brought the stone, an unusual rutilated gold topaz that was purportedly a family heirloom, a sheaf of drawings of the House and family doing the commission, and a fat purse of gold. Apparently a Lord of Men had heard of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain and wished a gift for his only child upon her wedding. Usually, such a commission would be referred to one of the smaller guilds or lesser jewelers. 

But unusually for Men, this lord had specifically mentioned he wished his daughter to have a long, healthy and happy life, rather than demanding a token to encourage many heirs. 

Charmed at the request and fascinated with the stone, he claimed the project for himself and Sung the pendant with hope, love and healing. Celebrimbor smiled as he polished the intricate water iris looping the setting. A proper bridal gift, he thought as he packed it away in its shipping box. 

At loose ends he stared around his workshop. “Make something pretty.” 

Something pretty… 

He pulled out of a slate and idly began to sketch. Aunt Galadriel, Lord Celeborn and little Celebrian took shape in chalk and he smiled at the image. He had always had a secret crush on his aunt. He snickered, maybe not so secret. But despite the whispers Galadriel had always favored his gifts with one of her distant smiles and a warm sense of maternal approval he treasured. 

He surrounded the trio with mallorn trees before propping the slate up on a shelf so they could smile at the room before picking up another slate and scribbling in idle circles. 

It had been a long time, maybe it was time to try something larger? 

Maybe Rings again.

Annatar’s first lessons were easy. 

Setting a minor Song into a gemstone or metal was much like making a light stone for the lanterns or a gemstone resonate to produce a good mood. Even back in the Light of the Trees his grandfather had invented the Feanorian lamps, and other crafters had experimented with gems.

Under Annatar’s instruction the Gwaith-i-Mirdain managed to work their way into more and more complicated and powerful Songs. From simple light or simple emotion into talismans of healing, luck – truly anything the Singer could imagine or possessed power to enact. 

But the larger and more complicated the Song, the harder it was to keep all the pieces straight and aligned. And it became difficult to keep all the Song pieces coordinated, requiring fewer but more powerful Singers. The Rings he had given the dwarf lords were awe inspiring, but Sung by Annatar and himself only. Each had taken a chunk of power and soul that ached like an actual physical injury that left him sick and dizzy before slowly healing.

He wasn’t certain that the soul marks had ever completely healed. In late nights they sometimes pulled and twinged.

The idle loops of chalk on slate took on edges and corners.

Eventually, after several massive failures, Annatar left. He had rather remotely thanked Celebrimbor and the Gwaith-i-Mirdain and headed off on his next Valar-sent mission. Celebrimbor had never managed to shake the feeling that Annatar felt they had failed, or failed to live up to some standard. 

Typical for the Valar.

He looked at the mass of lines on the slate. If he added a few lines around the outside and highlighted a few through the middle it looked like one of the Silmarils. 

Grandfather had never told anyone how he made the Silmarils, and the secret died with him on that mountainside. They felt a little similar to the last of the Rings they had made. 

Celebrimbor leaned forward, staring at his drawing. 

Had Annatar been trying to reproduce the Silmarils? 

Intrigued, he rubbed out his scribbles and started working through the Songs they had used in the last set of failures. 

The Songs were braided around in a pattern, a loop that powered itself. But required strength and soul to create something to continue rather than slowly fading over millennia. He diagramed in a fold of power and notated the balance. Outside ornamentation was all superficial work, meant to enhance belief in the power of the design. Another loop went into the diagram. At that power level, there would be a feedback problem in the Songs used without a focus to the design. 

That’s why each Ring had a gemstone in the center of the setting. 

This was as far as Annatar, the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, all the best minds of Eregion (including himself) had gotten. You simply couldn’t push more power into the things, not and keep them stable when you cut them off your soul. And you couldn’t keep them connected, not and stay sane. That had been one early experiment that resulted in the near deaths of most of the elves in the experiment and several of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain Sailing as they retreated to Valinor to heal from the damage. Even Annatar had been prostrate with exhaustion and pain. 

He frowned at the pattern. 

_“Think of the Silmarils.”_ He ignored the thought. The Silmarils had caused their creator to go completely mad. And sucked all of Arda into madness.

_“Completely mad…”_ Celebrimbor jerked straighter in his chair and stared at his diagram. Had his Grandfather cut out pieces of his soul to make the Silmarils? He shuddered, spinning the chalk in his hand. 

He slammed the chalk down on the desk, breaking it and stomped off to his kitchen. Time to finish the washing up. 

There weren’t many dishes, just dinner and a smaller plate for the wedge of fruit pie for desert. He still managed to drop his wine glass, fumbling it wet and soapy onto the floor by his feet. He shook his head and went to find the little pan and stiff broom he used for work accidents: a rag would have to be discarded and he didn’t feel like picking broken glass out of the house broom. 

The tiny shards in the dust pan glittered in the light of the lamp and he stared at them, reminded of his father using a candle and paper in an experiment. His father said, “Now watch carefully,” and filled the cone of translucent paper with water and set it in a bracket of the sort used to hold larger settings.

The flames had licked at the paper, but it did not burn. As they watched, the water began to steam and his father said, “Why does the paper not burn?”

Celebrimbor guessed and guessed and his father shook his head at each guess, frowning in that way that said Celebrimbor wasn’t living up to expectations. Together they watched the water bubble and evaporate and the paper catch fire. His father had smiled at his puzzlement, and patting him said, “The paper doesn’t catch if there is still water. Let’s go get a snack.”

The glass rattled in the little pan and Celebrimbor smiled. It had been a few more years until he had figured out that the water kept the delicate paper too damp to heat up and burn with the tiny candle flame. 

It formed a stable system for so long as the water lasted.

_“Stable…”_

The word echoed in Celebrimbor’s head. The Silmarils had been both powerful and stable in a way the Rings were not. Their power lasted beyond the sanity of their maker, and Grandfather Feanor’s death as well. Their purity continued despite Morgoth, and Celebrimbor wasn’t certain how even the hallowing and blessing by the Valar would do THAT. 

But the Silmarils had been made together, all three with different inclinations. Their ultimate fates certainly showed that.

_“Three. Air, Water, Fire…”_ Celebrimbor shook his head: something was missing in the equation, a part that should be obvious. 

He put his feet up on the poof he had made as a rather sad experiment in leatherwork (Uncle Amrod and Uncle Amras had definitely been much better leatherworkers) and leaned back into the comfort of his chair. 

_“Love… Love us, teach us, let us grow…”_ He slipped off into peaceful dreams of family and didn’t wake until the dawn sunshine reflecting off snow slipped through the window. 

He lay there in the chair, blinking peacefully at the new day. What had he dreamed about? Voices? The Silmarils?

Celebrimbor jerked up. Three Silmarils with three different fates must have been made three ways. He padded off to his workroom and grabbed a fresh slate and began to doodle. As he detailed the rotation of the Song, he added two more sets into the diagram and detailed their power so they interwove themselves into a whole. 

It worked. The whole thing balanced into a stable set of three Silmarils. 

This is what Annatar had wanted.

But the diagram also revealed a basic, horrible flaw: even using Light from the Trees the maker would have to rip parts out of their own soul to provide the needed internal constructs. He shuddered, remembering his grandfather raving as he burned to ash. 

Disturbed by the memories, he spent the day walking around Ost-in-Edhil, greeting all of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain still in town over the long break. 

_“Love us, teach us, we will grow….”_ That evening he sat down at his workbench and stared at the series of diagrams. He ran a finger along the rough edge of the last slate, rubbing at the tiny chip in one corner from dropping it during a cleanup session over the summer. The idea of things growing had been in his mind all day. 

_“We can grow…”_ Celebrimbor jerked. Those were not his thoughts. 

The voices wrapped him in a sense of warmth. A high sweet voice pleaded, _“Ada, please Sing us. Let us grow and inspire.”_

A deeper voice said, _“Ada we love you. We will never abandon you.”_

_“We will protect those you love.”_

The voices were a part of him. And yet not. Not good. The smart thing would be to go immediately to the healing hall and call for Elrond to come from Lindon. 

A darker more jealous voice from memory, driven by the Oath into unfamiliarity said, “So be it, abandon your family and your heritage. You have always been a disappointment to me.” 

The vicious embarrassment, rage and grief of old memories was gently soothed as he began to cry. _“Ada, Sing us, build us, watch us grow. We could be your children.”_

He picked up a fresh slate. 

Hours later, Celebrimbor was certain Narvi would not have approved. There would have been humph noises and a broad hand twining nimble fingers through her beard. He could almost hear her say, “Khel, objects of Power are all well and good. But mind how you go when they start to instruct you in their making.” 

He smiled tentatively at the plans. This could work: One smith, one Singer with unswerving dedication to their goal. Three Rings that complimented and balanced each other. And Rings that would grow over time. Not specifically in power, but in all the ways an elfling would. He could give them the basics to become their own things and they would protect all those he loved. 


	3. Saying that everything has a price implies we aren’t willing to pay.

Celebrimbor went to bed and slept dreamlessly through the night. 

In the morning he set to work. He even knew what gemstones he would use. 

It took a week and was both harder and simpler than he thought possible. Harder in that it wore him down in a way no Singing ever had before. He had finished and collapsed there in his workroom with the physical shock. But there had been no soul pain, no feeling of cutting pieces of himself away. 

Instead, he had created three Rings that rang with power. True power, that eclipsed his gifts to the Dwarf and Mannish Lords.

They would need more polishing, and that would take a while. But everything worth effort took time. 

He smiled at them from where he lay and started to sing the lullaby Galadriel always sang to little Celebrian. It was a sweet and silly little song, with endless verses of creatures getting ready for bed or waking up as the sun went down. 

“Listen for the blackbirds calling good night,

Listen for the owls greeting the moon,

Listen for the nightingales singing their song…”

The next day, Celebrimbor carefully tucked them into a pouch and took them with him as he went to bed more properly, still singing under his breath. He fell asleep with the Rings against his chest, to the quiet whispers of, _“We love you Ada.”_

He could not keep them. He knew that. But he could sing lullabies for a few weeks and decide where they needed to go. 

It took well into summer to deliver the Rings to their recipients. Superficially, elf lords of rank and social power. They could use the Rings to bring back a little of the glory of Valinor. And more importantly to Celebrimbor, all three selected because they loved Middle Earth and wanted to protect it. The Rings would watch them, grow and learn. 

And then one day, in the distant future, they would be grown. Celebrimbor could then carefully and gently sever the soul bond between them, and his precious creations would be complete.

The dream lasted ten years. 

He never could remember Annatar completing the One Ring. It was simply blank horror. He did remember one of the smiths shouting as he knelt there and watched blood drip from his nose and mouth, great bruises appearing under the skin of his hands as the tiny vessels that carry blood burst. But of that moment, nothing but the screaming in his head.

He awoke to the beige ceiling of the Healing Hall and Elrond sleeping in a chair next to his bed. Elrond had been there for weeks, according to Erestor. When asked much later, Erestor had gently filled him in on the entire story.

At that moment though, Elrond scrambled up fast enough to tip the chair and said, “How do you feel? Do you know what happened?” His hands were busy, pressing on Celebrimbor’s chest to feel his heart and sweeping tangled hair out of his eyes. “Was it Sauron’s voice?”

Sauron. Annatar. For a moment it was all blank, and then Celebrimbor understood and began to cry. 

Late that night he lay alone in a private room of the healing halls and started to quietly sing, “Listen for the blackbirds singing goodnight…”

He would destroy every shred of evidence of his creations. He would Sing and create new things as long as possible, to help in the coming war he had created. 

And sing lullabies to his precious ones in the depths of each night.

***

When he awoke, he was on soft cushions in a leafy talan of Lothlorien. Elves outside were singing and the air was warm. Celebrimbor sighed, he was exhausted. 

He shut his eyes and tried to go limp again as footsteps sounded on the walk outside the talan. The door was flung open with enough force that the second being through the door grabbed it as it bounced off the wall. 

“Atto!” The black haired elfling bounced onto the bed and wrapped skinny arms around his chest. “Atto, are you finally awake?” 

Habitually he sat up and responded, “Good morning little one, have you already been out playing?” Celebrimbor tried to remember that this elfling looked exactly like him as a child, was him as a child. But himself-as-a-child was warm against him, and cuddled trustingly in his arms. He could hear the elfling’s breathing and his long silky hair smelled of sage and honey, Aunt Galadriel’s favorite soap. 

“I built a boat with mallorn leaves and Amme and I took it down to the great pool by the docks.” The elfling sighed with gusto and rolled his eyes. “It sank.”

In spite of himself, Celebrimbor laughed and his wife said, “You missed holes in the bottom and used rocks in the keel as ballast, it wasn’t much of a surprise the water came in.” He reminded himself again to look at his wife, she had no face because he had never imagined what his wife would look like. Only how she would sound, and smell and feel in his arms. How she would love to craft and build. How he would love her.

“I’ll do it better next time, just watch.” The determined expression somehow conveyed a slight pout made Celebrimbor laugh harder. 

His wife laughed sweetly again and his heart broke a little at her loveliness. “Tomorrow you can try again.” She paced across the room and sat down next to them on the bed. She stroked the elfling’s head and leaned over to kiss him on the forehead. “My love, you stayed up late finishing that project, and now you’ve overslept. How do you feel?”

Her eyes were the same lovely blue as Galadriel’s and he leaned in to kiss her again, this time on the mouth. Her lips were soft and he coaxed her to open for him, allowing him to deepen the kiss. Down their bond he said, _“My love, my darling….”_

As the kiss broke he took a deep breath, suddenly dizzy before reaching out to pull her against his side. He said, “I am fine, only a little lazy today. How are you, my dear?”

She leaned in and whispered into his ear, “Anxious for you to wake.” His wife kissed his ear, a bit of tongue lapping the tip, and leaned back to look at both of them. “Why don’t we have breakfast in bed and then go for a hike today? You finished the project last night, right?”

He grinned. “I did, and its perfect. I’ll show it to you later. It took a while to get right but I think even you will be impressed.”

“Do I get to see too, Atto? I want to see the project.” The tiny voice was more intense and adult than an elfling that age should own and Celebrimbor shuddered trying to remember what color his son’s eyes were.

Gray like his own. His own eyes. 

A duplicate of him when he was that age.

“Love, is something wrong?” His wife sounded alarmed. “Do you not feel well?”

He managed to smile back and let go to swing his legs over the side of the flat bed. “I’m fine. Shall we go eat breakfast?”

She leaned into him gently, holding him in place. “Let’s have breakfast here. Curufinwe? Will you go get plates and napkins? I brought a basket.”

With a final hug and giggle, the elfling ran out the door. More threads of alarm trickled into his chest as Celebrimbor watched the elfling go. “How old is he now?”

His wife laughed and patted him on the shoulder, leaning in to kiss him again. “You are so silly sometimes! Now, you finished the project last night, right? Can I see it? Where are they?”

Where are they?

The Rings. Memory slammed back into place and Celebrimbor pushed his “wife” back a little with a little peck of a kiss. “Love, you know the project is a surprise. I can’t tell you.” He thought he had already told, when they broke his hands. And then when they cut off his fingers, cauterizing the injuries so he wouldn’t die so fast. Being careful to hurt and frighten him as much as possible without breaking him and allowing his soul to escape. But if he is still being asked, then the most important Three are still out there. 

His “wife” pouted, wearing Galadriel’s face. “You never tell me anything, you don’t actually love me.”

He laughed. “Too late, Sauron. This is just another little game of yours.” Pulling a little of the Song left to him out, he could see the truth: he lay by himself, sprawled naked on the filthy floor of a cell. Blinking in the bright light he had been left under, he noticed the unbroken leg was now locked into a shackle sunk into the floor.

He wouldn’t escape without cutting off his foot. 

Celebrimbor laughed and then coughed as blood gurgled somewhere in his chest. Stupid body, born in the Light of the Trees. Like Uncle Maedhros, too stubborn and durable to simply die and so both blessed and doomed to live. 

But the plan still worked and was sound.

Stay alive as long as possible to give his Rings a chance to grow. Stay alive long enough to feed them power and love.

Then, prune them away to become their own things.

He had hoped it would be in a thousand years, when the Rings had truly gone from his precious creations to his blessings. When they had grown enough that the severing would be tiny and painless. Done now, his soul would be ripped into shreds as the Rings took all of him.

It was time though, any longer and Sauron would pry the last of his secrets out. 

He began to sing, one last time.

“Listen for the blackbirds calling good night,

Listen for the owls greeting the moon,

Listen for the nightingales singing their song,

All saying, saying, ‘I love you.’”

***

Cirdan’s boat was crowded with refugees. 

He had filled up every spot that was safe enough below decks, trying to get the traumatized and battered Elves and Men out of the misty rain and cold wind. His crew was on deck, tacking the boat to keep it inshore and he and his wife were reading the maps, trying to decide how close they could cut the barrier reefs. There were still a few refugees on the deck, less injured Men and Elves willing to hang onto the rail as they went slowly south along the coast. They watched the shore, looking for more survivors to save. 

So only his wife noticed when he halted, walked to the map cabinet and popped out the stop blocking a little cubby space in the curve of the of the door. He pulled out the little box. “It was predictable, wasn’t it?”

“What?” She watched him stare at the Ring with its living gem of fire. 

He pulled the Ring out of the box and turned to his wife. Down their bond he said, _“Lord Celebrimbor is gone.”_ She began to cry as she continued the calculations. He went to her sea chest, _“May I borrow a chain?”_ With the Ring tucked under his shirt he went back to the maps. Over the following weeks, no one ever questioned that he and his wife quietly sang as they went about their duties. He would sing old sea chants until tired, soothing the Ring with the measured pattern of tone. When he became hoarse, his wife sat next to him and sang lullabies of the waves and the clouds.

It was the least they could do.

***

Galadriel reeled as the Ring screamed in pain and terror.

It lay there on her desk gathering dust where she had set it when the One Ring had spoken. A beautiful piece of jewelry now weeping for her nephew, the last of the line of Feanor. Terrified and alone. Far more than Celebrimbor told her when he presented it to her and Celeborn with his usual bright and careless smile. 

She said, “Tylepe, you told us it was to protect and preserve all that was fair.” She ran a finger along the metal. “At what price did you make this?”

She scooped the wretched thing up to toss into her desk, or maybe the river. And paused as the strands of the past, present and future spun out around her. In one future she dropped the Ring into her desk and walked away. In another she handed it to King Amdir. In yet another she did indeed drop it into the river and another traveled farther to throw it into the Sea. In another she handed it to her daughter, now standing in the doorway watching her. 

This was a liminal moment: her choice now would save or destroy everything she loved. 

Galadriel slipped the Ring, now warm with the heat of her hand, onto her finger. Then walked blankly past her daughter, and out into the woods. She vanished for several days and nights and then reappeared at council as if nothing had happened. 

But she and her daughter very quietly began to plan for a long ride to a little valley hidden in the mountains. 

They had work to do.

***

Gil-galad took the thing out of the tiny box in the bottom of his luggage. It lay on his hand, innocent and bright, and with the power to destroy him. 

It always made Lord Glorfindel nervous, and the Vanya lord had always uncannily known when it was near. He once asked Lord Glorfindel why he didn’t like the Ring, beyond its unfortunate direct connection to Sauron. 

Lord Glorfindel had shaken his head and paused to think. Finally he said, “Did you know I was there the first time Feanor brought out the Silmarils to display? He had them set into this sort of mesh crown…. You know, floating between the wires. They were beautiful and terrible all at the same time.” 

Gil-galad shook his head. 

He wasn’t certain why Lord Glorfindel had started there, but the elf lord was just as intelligent as Celebrimbor, Oropher, Elrond or Erestor. All survivors of the first order who lived by both wit and gut instinct.

“But the Valar saw them and crowded in to look, and then blessed them as holy.” The expression turned from pensive to bitter. The expression didn’t sit well on his face. “It would have been nice if they had disposed of them instead. That Ring.” He nodded at the light fixture next to the door where Gil-galad had stashed it this time. “That Ring feels much like the Silmarils did, in the beginning. I feel like you should be careful, because that Ring could save or destroy everything.” 

Now, “that Ring” felt different. And instead of whispering of all they could do together, all that could be protected with its power, it whispered Lord Celebrimbor’s death and cried like an orphaned elfling.

He kissed it gently and replaced it in its box. And told the box, “He will be avenged.”

Gil-galad slipped the box into a pocket before he stepped out of his tent, calling his generals for a meeting. If Lord Celebrimbor was dead without revealing the locations of the Rings, Sauron would go for the most likely holders as targets: Lady Galadriel, Lord Celeborn, Lord Cirdan, King Oropher, Lord Glorfindel… 

Elrond. 

Lost in the east somewhere, hopefully running to safety with his House.

He could make sure Sauron started with the best protected target and maybe buy them all enough time to survive. He sat down at the table with the maps. “We need to make sure Sauron is focused on us.”


End file.
